Reminders
by thearchetypes
Summary: They were a sick keepsake of a sort, something that was so repulsive and almost perverse, but which he considered so fond and desirable.


Actually really proud of this fic. Sooo. Haters gon' hate.

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><p><strong>REMINDERS<strong>

He was always so fond of the bruises.

They were reassuring reminders that someone had been there, that someone had kissed him so roughly the night before. They were reminders that he had made love to him. They appeased him in a way, like a friendly ghost that kept him company. Because, even if he denied it fervently the morning after, he would still have the scars to prove it. The sharp sensations would always still burn the next day. He convinced himself they were territorial marks, something that Steve would leave to tell other people that he belonged to him and him only. No one else could satisfy him like he could, and no one should dare try.

The love bites felt so lovely in his touch. When the other boy would leave, he would just lay in bed and run his fingers tenderly over his new violet-colored nips, shutting his eyes and enclosing himself in the previous night's passions. They hurt and felt so wonderful at the same time, and nevertheless, he kept pressing and pressing, remembering and reminiscing.

He was always such a rough lover, marking harsh stings in his sensitive skin. He knew how hot and bothered Soda would get when he pushed him against the thick wall above the bed, raking his teeth firmly until he would cry out for him to stop. He never stopped, not once, even when tears threatened to prick at his eyes. It managed to repel him and keep him coming back. Even when he discovered a small trickle of blood on his stomach a few days later. Steve did this because he knew he _could_ and he knew he couldn't resist.

The bruises didn't just bring back the achingly beautiful grips and emotions. They brought back the dirty, filthy words that made Soda feel like bathing in holy water afterwards. He had this vulgar way with words, something that seemed to be increasing in effect with every night they shared together. His growls against his neck would drive the other boy absolutely crazy, eliciting groans in return, giving his consent to go harder and faster. They were awfully loud, and his brother had more than once come to him apprehensively asking why they were making so many sounds. His insufficent lie was always wrestling. And the naive boy with his virgin ears would believe him, until the next time when Soda would voice his guttural approval rather audibly, and the cycle would continue.

He had to start growing out his hair if he was going to keep up the charade. Steve loved to suck, sometimes agonizingly slow or eagerly fast depending on how bold his noises were, much to his dismay, and even though he took great pleasure in it, he couldn't ignore how open his private lovebites were for everyone to see. He covered them up, not only to keep his brothers from persisting him with questions, but so he could keep a little private piece of their affairs to himself. They were a sick keepsake of a sort, something that was so repulsive and almost perverse, but which he considered so fond and desirable. He didn't want to share them with anyone else besides the one who gave them.

Sandy was never this crude and coarse. She was the sweet blonde with the yellow sweater and optimistic curls. Albeit she wasn't a Soc, she had always made him feel inferior, and as much as he loved her and held her on a high pedestal, she pushed and pulled like he was the tide and she was the moon. He felt this way with Steve, too, but their relationship was much more than push and pull. It was desire and devotion and it made him feel maddeningly fufilled to the pit of his stomach. She would never be like Steve, whispering disgusting words in his ear, all the while working with his hands like the boy underneath him was an fine-tuned engine. She would never leave teeth imprints that made him feel so exhilarating when he looked in the mirror. She would always be the girl who was soft and gentle, with her dainty touch and needy demands. He would never go back.

He yearned for the days of unrestricted affections. Their relationship would always be beneath the sheets in the twilight of the night, the only sign that they were even together being the glow from the shine of the stars peeking through the Curtis window. That was something that was unquestionable and not meant to be discussed, but still, he longed for a day when Steve would not deny their darkened lust; a moment when he would acknowledge the intimate wounds he carried on the gape of his neck. But all there was was the indignant expression on his face every time he brought it up, a firm indication it was not to be mentioned again. Despite his cold dismissal, he would always find him, the window propped up for his accessible entry. All would be forgiven within the first bite.

He keeps them as a souvenir, a small trinket of their insatiable cravings for each other. Because regardless of what happens, he would always have the bruises.


End file.
